


Mariel: An Abhorsen's Tale

by Reading Redhead (readingredhead)



Category: Old Kingdom - Garth Nix
Genre: Established Relationship, F/M, Pre-Canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-08-24
Updated: 2010-08-24
Packaged: 2017-10-11 05:46:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,466
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/109053
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/readingredhead/pseuds/Reading%20Redhead
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A day in the life of Mariel, an early Abhorsen.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Mariel: An Abhorsen's Tale

From the moment of her birth, Mariel was destined for power.  As the only child of the Abhorsen Daniel, she automatically assumed the position of Abhorsen-in-Waiting upon birth, and all of the hardships that went with the post.  By the time she was old enough to understand such things, Mariel knew that her father was very important, and that she would someday follow in his footsteps.  She knew that it didn’t matter what _she_ wanted; her mother and father had both been very clear on that respect.  The Charter was still only a few generations old, her father constantly lectured her, and unrest had not altogether left the Old Kingdom.  Someone had to guarantee the safety of the people against deranged necromancers and their Free Magic constructs.  Someone had to be the Abhorsen.  And someday, Mariel knew, that someone would be her.

That didn’t mean she had to like it.  She was, as her mother always said, a “willful child,” inclined to shirking her lessons if it meant a chance to sneak outside for a few hours’ play, ready to ignore her responsibilities to spend a day exploring the great Abhorsen’s House, which continually presented her with new surprises.  But always when she escaped into these moments of freedom, someone—whether it was her mother, one of the servants, or her father himself—would draw her back to her studies and remind her of her duty, not just to her family, but to her entire Kingdom.  She was descended from the first Abhorsen, the only child of the current Abhorsen, the Abhorsen-in-Waiting.  Mariel was sick of the titles, but she could not deny their truth.

Slowly, she grew from a willful child into a willful adult, and she resigned herself to the necessity of her father’s lessons.  Her first real experiences with the Dead were enough to convince her that she served an important purpose, even if it was one she would have rather left to someone else.  It was not a comforting thought, that she would serve the Kingdom at the expense of her own happiness, but at least it gave her purpose. 

When Mariel’s father died, leaving her as Abhorsen at last with a husband, a child of her own, and another on the way, she did not waste time weeping over Daniel’s death.  Her first act as Abhorsen was to track down the necromancer who had killed him, and to repay the favor.

*

Two years later, it seemed that Mariel still had not been given a second to rest.  It was a pity, she thought ruefully, that the Dead did not take the Abhorsen’s personal life into consideration.  It did not matter that she had a husband and two young children to care for.  It did not matter that a rash of amateur necromancers had kept her from being able to nurse her own son.  Certainly, it did not matter that her own daughter, only six years old, already had the look of a person twice her age, and knew that every time Mother packed up and left, there was no guarantee that she would be coming back.  Every time she looked into the eyes of her little Bethrael, named after the Abhorsens’ custom, Mariel felt something primal wrench at her gut, a kind of pain she never defeated.  She wondered, more than once, if her own eyes had held that stoicism at such a young age.

At least when she slept, Beth looked like a normal six-year-old, her body curled up and the covers pulled close to her chin.  Mariel reached out a gentle hand to brush across her daughter’s dark curls, wishing, as usual, that she did not have to leave this morning.  But it was her duty to respond to reports of the Dead, and just that night she had been relayed information regarding a large flock of gore crows sighted near the riverside city of Chasil.  A minor problem for the moment, but who knew how it could escalate?  Gore crows were usually just the beginning for a budding necromancer.  Better to find the source now than to deal with greater problems later.  She had made the necessary preparations for her journey, working until well past midnight, and only her need for sleep had persuaded her to delay her departure until dawn.

She heard the floor creak slightly, and felt a hand upon her shoulder, laid heavily atop the Abhorsen’s surcoat, which she wore as a matter of course, covering the armor she wished she didn’t need.  She leaned into the strength of Nathan’s body, and they stood in silence for a moment, watching their daughter sleep.

But only for a moment.  Mariel had things to do, and the sooner she finished them, the sooner she would be able to return home.  She turned away from Nathan’s light embrace and left Bethrael’s room, walking quietly so as not to wake her.  Nathan followed her, closing the door with infinite precision, and Mariel felt an upwelling of emotion for her husband, who had been with her through so much.  As a young girl she had often thought that she could never find love, imagining the Abhorsen’s path to be a solitary one.  She had been so blessed to find Nathan, so grateful to have her childish assumptions proven wrong.  Things were not always easy between her and Nathan, it was true, but at least she had him.

He waited outside Zander’s room while she went in and kissed their son goodbye.  In the morning—the dawn was less than an hour distant now—when the children woke up, she would be gone, and Nathan would be left to tell them that Mother had left again, and that he did not know when she would come back. 

Mariel knew he hated it, knew that it killed a part of him to play this role of the dutiful husband, waiting at home for her return.  He was a strong Charter Mage in his own right, one of the many talents that had drawn her to him those years ago when they’d first met.  She had immediately been attracted to Nathan’s energy, to the way he was always engrossed in one project or another, devoting his full attention to it before moving on to something new.

Now when she was gone, he elected to stay home with the children, to keep them safe, he always said.  Mariel knew it was more than that, knew that he was so constantly there for them because she could not fulfill her share of the parental duties.  She had other duties, of course.  She knew it, he knew it, and poor little Bethrael was beginning to know it.  They did not have to like it.  She hoped that her children would not grow up to despise her for it, as she had often hated her own father.  She knew now, at least an inkling, of what he might have gone through.

Too many of these partings had passed between her and Nathan in the short time since Mariel had attained the mantle of Abhorsen.  They trod together in silence to the top of the tallest tower and stood close together by the waiting paperwing.  The bells on her bandolier pressed sharply between them as they kissed, softly, just once.  To Mariel, this parting kiss always spoke louder than anything they could have said to each other, and every time, it said only one thing, with insurmountable force: “Come back.”

She let him hand her into the paperwing, her fingers lingering against the warmth of his palm for as long as she could conscionably allow before she withdrew them and set her focus to piloting the craft toward Chasil.

*

Mariel remembered clearly her first trip outside of the lands that immediately bordered the bend in the Ratterlin where the Abhorsen’s House lay.  In a time of relative peace during her youth, the entire family had traveled to Belisaere, her father having been invited to an audience with the king.  Mariel had been ten at the time, and just beginning to appreciate the power her father wielded—the power that would one day pass on entirely to her.

She had been prepared to be dazzled by the opulence of the capital city, filled with all its royalty and splendor.  She had been prepared to be amazed by the new vistas she would have a chance to see.  She had _not_ been prepared for the common folks who, upon seeing the silver key upon a field of blue that was the Abhorsen’s device, moved to the margin of the road or retreated into their houses.  She had not been prepared for the whispers she heard, whispers her parents tried and failed to shield her from.  Whispers from the mouths of those who suggested that Abhorsens were nothing more than glorified necromancers, with more than enough power to keep them from being considered trustworthy. 

Her father had taken her aside once they had reached their destination and were ensconced within their luxurious apartments at the castle in Belisaere.  He had explained to her that there were those who did not fully understand the workings of the new Charter, who were apt to confuse the controlled usage of Free Magic practiced by the Abhorsens with the uncontrollable destructiveness wreaked by true necromancers.  And Mariel had known then, if she hadn’t already, that the world was not a fair place, because here were the people she was sworn to protect, and they didn’t even want her.

The climate had not improved in the years since.  Despite her efforts, and the efforts of her father before her, and his father before him, and all the way back to the first Abhorsen, the common folk were still afraid.  Having faced the Dead, Mariel could not blame them.  But still, she thought that their attitude was a poor way to repay their guardians.  She traveled by paperwing whenever possible, so as to avoid the people she would meet if she went by land, the people who would mistrust her from their first sight of her surcoat.

She had learned to cherish the time she spent in flight as one of the only times she ever found some kind of peace.  Whenever she was away, she longed to be back at home, but home was rarely a peaceful place.  There were always people there who needed her.  There were people out here who needed her, too.  She was destined to spend the rest of her life oscillating between these two combating needs, with the times in transit the only ones that she could call her own.

Soon enough, Chasil appeared beneath her and she was forced to relinquish the air for the ground.  She did so grudgingly, slowly lowering the paperwing to land on the outskirts of the village.  There would have been no question of her landing within the town proper; to do so would draw too much attention.  Instead, Mariel let the paperwing glide to a halt on the margin of a field left fallow.  When she had stepped out of the craft, she closed her eyes for a moment to concentrate upon the marks of the Charter that were needed for the task at hand, drawing them out carefully and sealing her intent with a final binding mark.  She opened her eyes in time to see the paperwing shimmer out of sight.  With her bells firmly in place upon her bandolier, the Abhorsen’s sword scabbarded at her side, and a small pack containing all of the belongings she would need for a short stay, she left the paperwing and made her way toward the village.

*

Hours later she was on foot again, this time following up on the villagers’ reports regarding the center of gore crow activity.  She’d been received graciously enough at the town’s inn, though as she had suspected, her surcoat drew more than a few glares from the farmhands she’d passed on her way into Chasil.  She had been more than content to gather the information that had brought her to this place and to set out as quickly as possible to combat the threat.

Apparently, for the last week, there had been sightings of increased numbers of unnatural crows—which someone had had the sense to recognize as gore crows—circling around a spot less than an hour north of Chasil along the Ratterlin.  After half an hour on foot along the river’s bank, Mariel’s own vision attested to the villagers’ reports: she could make out, as a circling of black smudges, the gore crows.  Or rather, the reported gore crows.  There was always the possibility that there were simply a large number of ravens in the area.  Mariel almost laughed at that.  If only life were so easy.

She kept her senses open to the Dead, and her eyes upon the gore crows, hoping that they were the worst of her worries.

*

She should, she thought to herself minutes later, have known better than to hope that.  The gore crows had led her to this clearing a few minutes’ walk inland from the river, before mysteriously vanishing.  Their disappearance did nothing to quench Mariel’s sense of Death in the clearing.

“So you’re the Abhorsen,” a voice said from within the shadows at the clearing’s edge. 

The bottom fell out of Mariel’s stomach.

A man stepped out from behind the first row of trees, doing his best to keep to the shadows.  He was tall and lanky, and moved with a loping stride.  His long dark hair hung in a ponytail down his back, and he stared at Mariel intently through dark brown eyes.  “I had been hoping to meet you,” he said.  “Mariel, is it?”

“I’m afraid I’ve never heard of you,” she said, with more composure than she felt.  “What are you doing here?”  She did not need to ask; she could _feel_ Death around him, puckering toward him like an opened wound.

A smirk stretched his thin lips.  “You may call me Gavra.  And frankly, I’m here because you’re here.  I like to pay a visit to each new Abhorsen.”

That feeling in her stomach was only growing worse.  Mariel gripped the pommel of her sword with her right hand, keeping her left free to go for her bells if she needed them.  “You’re a little late,” she said.  “I’ve been Abhorsen over two years now.”

“Pocket change,” Gavra said, waving a hand.  “Two years are of no great consequence to people like you and I.  And besides—I am here _now_, am I not?”

Mariel felt a smirk of her own forming from a combination of her uncertainty and annoyance.  “I’d invite you to tea,” she said, “but it wouldn’t be particularly conducive to business for the Abhorsen to spend time in the company of necromancers.”

Gavra leaned back against a tree, an air of calm confidence about him.  “There are some who’d say that the Abhorsen is little more than a glorified necromancer.”

Mariel felt anger flare up in her at this accusation.  “Be that as it may,” she said through gritted teeth, “they neglect to realize one salient fact.  Necromancers raise the dead.  The _Abhorsen_,” she stressed the word, “sets them to rest.”

“A fine line,” Gavra said, his tone noncommittal.  “And one easily crossed.”

“I would _never_ raise the dead,” Mariel said, wondering why she was justifying herself to the necromancer.  But he didn’t seem to desire a fight between them.  She kept mulling over what he had said, about having met the past Abhorsens.  Had he met her father?  Why had Daniel never told her?

Her attention was drawn back to Gavra, as he walked out into the clearing, his loping strides eating away at the ground until he was only a few feet in front of her.  This close, she could see the detailing on the leather of his bell bandolier, sigils and signs tooled into the straps and accented with dyes.  She recognized none of the marks.  “Never,” he said softly, when he was within range, “say never.”  He began to pace in a circle around her in the clearing, keeping his distance, but forcing Mariel to turn about to keep him always in her sight.  “I can think of several instances in which it might be...tempting.”

Mariel shook her head firmly.  “As Abhorsen I will do what is required of me to prevent unnecessary killings at the hands of the Dead,” she said.  “Nothing beyond that is within my power.”

Gavra laughed, an utterly mirthless, hollow sound.  “You are the Abhorsen.  _Nothing_ is beyond your power.”  He stopped his pacing to look at her.  “Do you know,” he said, a hint of wonder in his voice, “with the power and resources you have, you could build your own empire.  And everyone would be too stupid, too afraid, to stop you.”

This talk was making Mariel nervous.  She wasn’t used to discussion—she was used to the fight, used to her life depending upon her skill with sword and bells and Charter magic and, ultimately, willpower.  She kept her senses open, waiting for the trick that did not come.  “I would never,” she said again.

“Why not?”  Before she could answer with outrage, Gavra added, “And do not give me some answer about it being your duty, your heritage.  What is it about raising the dead that you feel is so fundamentally wrong?  What if we were to put it into simpler terms—perhaps raising the dead is repugnant, but what of restoring the newly-dead spirit to life?  Surely, if an accident befell one of your children...”  He trailed off, his voice insinuating something so horrible she could not even think about it.

The blood ran cold in Mariel’s veins.  Her hand tightened on the grip of her sword, and she shook her head at the necromancer.  “You,” she said, in a level, dangerous voice, “just made a very large mistake.”

*

When the silhouette of the Abhorsen’s House appeared on the horizon, the sun had already set for the day.  Bethrael and Zander would be in their beds already, though Mariel was sure Nathan would be up, likely pacing around the study, awaiting her return.  A smile tugged at the corner of her mouth.  She’d never made it home this quickly before.  It would be some kind of record.

He was waiting for her when she landed the paperwing on the tower, with a look of surprise and slight concern on his face.  She let him hand her out of the craft, and felt through that contact an upwelling of love and affection that always greeted her when she returned home.  “You’re back early,” he said, clearly not sure if he ought to be relieved or worried.  “Is everything alright?”

Mariel began to nod, but was interrupted by a yawn.

Nathan smiled.  “If you’re letting yourself yawn, things must be fine.  You should get some rest.”  He laid his arm across her shoulders so they were walking side by side.  “Was it just a false alarm, then?”

She shook her head.  “Necromancer.  Not a very good one.”

Nathan nodded.  “What’d he want?”

“To talk.”  Nathan’s eyebrows furrowed in confusion.  “He seemed to think,” Mariel explained, “that he could convince me to give up my duty as an Abhorsen, and use my skill with Free Magic to start some kind of empire.”

Her husband raised an eyebrow.  “An _empire_?”

Mariel nodded, still not quite believing it himself.  “His word, not mine.”

Nathan shook his head.  “You have the strangest job.”

Mariel turned so she was facing him and smiled ruefully.  “I know,” she said.  “I’m sorry.”

“You don’t have to be sorry,” he said softly, drawing her close up against his chest.  “I knew what I was getting into when I signed up for this.”

“I still feel like I have to apologize, though,” Mariel said, her head tucked beneath his chin.  “This wasn’t what I wanted for myself, or for you, or for our family.”  The last, meant to be serious, was turned unfortunately comical by a second yawn.

Nathan squeezed her tight for a moment before releasing her.  “_You_,” he said, taking her hand, and beginning to lead her down from the tower, “need some sleep.  If you really want to show me how sorry you are, then _you_ can deal with the children tomorrow.  Zander’s not so bad, but Beth’s going through a ‘why’ phase, where _everything _I tell her is proceeded by the question...”

Mariel did not hear the rest of Nathan’s softly-spoken words.  She just let herself drift off into the sound of his voice, and the feeling of his supporting touch, and thought that perhaps she had found a purpose worth having after all.


End file.
